


Unfortunate Side Effects

by Wordsy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Chorus Arc, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Spoilers, Platonic Relationships, Restraints, Tucker and Wash are roommates, Tuckington - Freeform, can be read as shipping or platonic, drugged, i'm generally just mean to wash, minor blood, minor injury, pre-tuckington, references to wash's time in recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-08 07:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12859482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsy/pseuds/Wordsy
Summary: “If Washington was exposed to the sedative during Project Freelancer, I expect it will dredge up some unpleasant memories, but,” Grey folds her hands on her desk, “I’m more concerned that it might have been used following the incident with the Epsilon AI–during recovery.”Or, Wash has a poor reaction to a sedative leaving him unable to distinguish where or when he is. But Tucker's prepared to stay with the Freelancer as he comes down from it, however long it takes.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another edition of Wordsy Is a Terrible Person

 It was a stupid injury, one that hardly required a trip to the infirmary let alone an overnight stay.

The dislocated shoulder and sprained wrist were the worst of it, followed by bruised ribs, and a minor concussion. But Grey was airing on the side of caution. She was concerned about Washington’s implants, given his history of head trauma and the unfortunate frequency of his visits to the infirmary following missions (due to being a self-sacrificial asshole). The Freelancer was on his way out the door of the ward, trailing a chattering Caboose when Grey swooped in. The next thing Tucker knew, the doctor was physically dragging Wash back to a hospital bed, chirping about keeping him under observation on the off chance he dropped dead from a stroke or started bleeding from his eyes or something. Wash protested but ultimately gave in under Grey’s glare.

There were a million things Tucker should have been doing, such as debriefing from the mission, or, more appealingly, sleeping. But Caboose was determined to finish telling Wash whatever long-winded story he was going on about. When the hulking Blue soldier plopped down in a chair beside the bed, he patted the seat beside him, looking at Tucker expectantly. And Goddammit, that was the end of it. Sure, Tucker could have left after a couple of minutes, but the prospect of trekking to his room kept him in his seat. That and the flicker of a genuine, warm smile from Wash as Tucker pulled up a chair.

Visiting hours were long past when Grey finally kicked them out. Tucker was pretty sure she only allowed them to stay late to distract Wash from making an escape attempt. There wasn’t much reason to worry though. Wash was almost half asleep by the time the Blues were escorted out, probably thanks to whatever painkillers Grey had him on. As they left, Wash gave a faint smirk and waved. Tucker grinned, managing a mocking salute before Grey shoved them out the door.

Later, that’s the image that sticks with Tucker: Wash relaxed against the pillows, stupid sleepy look on his face as he fought to stay awake just long enough to wave goodnight to his team. Maybe because of its contrast to what came later.

 

* * *

 

When Tucker wakes up it takes him a few moments to figure out what’s off.

Sprawled across his bunk, he traces the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes. It’s quiet, but not the bad kind of quiet: the silence that comes right before a bomb hits, or seconds before an ambush. It’s quiet for Chorus standards, which means warthogs rolling by on grumbling engines, distant gunshots from the firing range, and steady whine of pelicans coming and going from the airstrip.

Twisting his neck, Tucker squints at the clock on his bedside table. Still a solid forty-five minutes until his alarm goes off. Tucker rolls over, burrowing into his blanket. He can’t even manage to sleep in on days when he’s _allowed_ to sleep in. Stupid internal clock. Then again, being allowed to sleep in doesn’t mean much when your roommate is dedicated to getting up at the ass crack of dawn–

Tucker sits up. Pressed up against the opposite wall is Wash’s empty bed, made with the blankets pulled tight–a model of military perfection just like the rest of his space.

Right, Wash spent the night in the infirmary. That’s what’s off. There’s no asshole in full armor standing over the sim trooper, telling him he’s going to be late for training because, _no, Tucker, ten minutes is not enough time to shower, suit up, and grab breakfast. You should be used to waking up early, you’re in the army._

Tucker flops back and pulls a pillow over his face. Yeah, well, doesn’t mean he has to like it.

After a few minutes of tossing and turning, Tucker gives up on sleep and drags himself out of bed to start the day. He snags a set of fatigues hanging from a rail of his bed frame.

Tucker and Wash were planning on sparring this morning. Tucker slips on his helmet and shoots off a quick message.

**Tucker** : hey you break out of the hospital yet?

He sets the helmet aside as he heads to the bathroom to continue getting ready. When he returns a few minutes later, he finds the message unanswered.

**Tucker** : are we still sparring today

**Tucker** : correction are you ALLOWED to spar

**Tucker** : i don’t want to get on grey’s bad side man. she controls the painkillers for the next time i get shot

Tucker checks the schedule on his datapad and finds their session still listed for the training room. Then he pulls up the chat. Still no response.

**Tucker** : whatever. i’ll be in the mess hall if you need me

Sticking the data pad under his arm, Tucker heads out of the barracks. Wash probably has his helmet off, that’s why he’s not answering. Heck, he’s probably at breakfast with the rest of the sim troopers.

* * *

 Wash isn’t at breakfast. Instead, Tucker ends up squeezing onto a bench with Caboose and Donut. Across from them, Sarge barely lifts his head from a pile of coffee stained blueprints, and Grif’s asleep in his scrambled eggs. There isn’t much space on the table between everyone’s trays and Freckles. Tucker edges the gun barrel away from himself and makes room for his own tray. Freckles might not be able to shoot him, but Tucker doesn’t need confetti in his cereal.

“Morning,” Tucker mumbles, shoveling a spoon full into his mouth.

Sarge hums, bent over his designs. The Red isn’t doing a great job of hiding them since Tucker can clearly make out the words ‘Semi-Automatic Blue-Be-Gone Ray.’ The walking shotgun project must be on hold.

Meanwhile, Grif snores himself awake and barely pauses before digging into breakfast. He looks over at Tucker, “Sup.” But it comes out more like “Mrrf,” with his mouth full.

Tucker shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. “How’s your knee?” The orange soldier twisted on yesterday’s mission.

“Horrible, won’t be able to train for a long time – maybe even forever.”

“He’s fine.” Simmons slides into a seat beside Grif. “Doctor said he doesn’t even need to stop training.”

“Can’t stop what you never started,” Tucker comments.

Grif puts a hand on his chest and stares at the maroon soldier with mock horror. "My god Simmons, do you want me to risk losing this leg? I'm in real pain here."

Simmons ignores the theatrics. “It’s called heart disease, fat ass.”

“Hey, Tucker,” Donut grabs the teal soldier’s attention. “Where’s Wash?”

Tucker pauses with a spoon full of cereal halfway to his mouth. “I dunno – how should I know?”

“Because you sleep with him,” Caboose says helpfully, right as the teal soldier takes a big bite of cereal. Tucker’s pretty sure milk comes out his nose.

“Goddammit, Caboose,” Tucker wheezes as Donut thumps him on the back. Grif’s snickering into his food across the table and the Blue soldier flips him off.

Once he’s finished choking, Tucker clears his throat. “You don’t say it like that. We’re roommates. We share a room–You know what? Let’s put this conversation on hold. Forever. I’m just not–” Tucker turns back to Donut. “Why?”

“Oh, I’m trying to plan a wine and cheese night, and I was hoping he could shift some of the cadets’ training times so everyone can come–”

Tucker takes a long swig of coffee. “Yeah, I don’t think he’s gonna go for that.”

“Ooh, don’t say that. I haven’t asked yet, so you never know–and obviously, he’s invited sooo…”

“Fine, whatever. I’m sparring with him in like an hour so, I can bring it up.”

Donut claps his hands together gleefully. “Thank you!”

Simmons cocks his head. “Come to think of it, Wash wasn’t on the track this morning.”

“Well, yeah,” Tucker says, stirring his sugary cereal milk, “the guy just got out of the hospital. He’s not going to be running laps.”

Simmons shrugs his shoulders. “Hasn’t stopped him before.”

The Red's right of course and Tucker knows that, even as he shoves the thought aside and finishes his meal.

* * *

Wash was supposed to be here over an hour ago.

Tucker’s slow to notice. He’s waiting in the training room when he gets distracted by a few cadets who hesitantly approach to ask for tips on the hand to hand techniques. He starts out with three students but it's not long before he's got fifteen kids gathered around him, wide-eyed and hanging on his every word.

When Tucker finally steps away to get a drink of water and towel sweat from his face, he happens to glance at his datapad on the bench. He does a double take and checks the time again, finally realizing just how late the Freelancer is. Tucker opens the chat but finds his messages to Wash still unanswered.

Tucker fires off another.

**Tucker** : you plan on showing up or do i win by default

Tucker leans back on the bench and watches the cadets run through their drills. But his attention keeps shifting back to the datapad.

**Tucker** : hello

**Tucker** : hey asshole

There’s a tight feeling coiling in his chest. He swallows it down with a long swig of water.

**Tucker** : donut’s looking for you

Minutes pass. Tucker forces himself to stop bouncing his leg.

**Tucker** : seriously man what the fuck

**Tucker** : i’m leaving

**Tucker** : where are you

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I'm publishing close to the anniversary of me posting my first fic [Stay](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8626558). And look at that. It's another angsty Tuckington h/c fic. One year hasn't changed much.  
> Comments and critiques welcome!
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr at [wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter Two

Tucker quickly learns that Donut’s not the only one who expects him to know where Wash is at any given moment. Even the cadets from Wash’s squad haven’t seen him. One soldier is so absorbed in a game on his datapad that he tells the sim trooper to ‘go ask Captain Tucker’–before noticing who’s standing over him and scrambling to give a messy salute while his fellow soldiers snicker.

 **Tucker** : hey you know where wash is?

 **Carolina** : schedule says training room

 **Tucker** : yeah with me. he’s not

 **Carolina** : try the armory

* * *

**Tucker** : is wash in the armory with you

 **Tucker** : wait why the fuck am i asking you

 **Lopez** : buena pregunta

 **Lopez** : tal vez su sentido común se borrará en mi equipo

 **Tucker** : i didn’t see a si or wi or whatever so i’m gonna go with no

* * *

**Tucker** : simmons says you’re in the barracks

 **Grif** : that narc

 **Tucker** : is wash there?

 **Grif** : how should i know

 **Tucker** : by like standing up and knocking on the door

 **Grif** : do it yourself

 **Tucker** : i’m across the base

 **Grif** : sucks to be you

 **Grif** : i banged on the wall. no high pitched shrieking

* * *

It’s 1100 when Tucker says fuck it and decides to move on with his day. He’s got things to do. He returns to the training room and heads for the weight racks in the corner. Wash is sure to wander in eventually, no matter what Grey might have told him about taking it easy.

It’s 1230 when Tucker says fuck it again.

 **Tucker** : do you know where wash is?

 **Epsilon** : isn’t that your job?

 **Tucker** : har har

 **Tucker** : like i haven’t heard that eight times today

 **Epsilon** : what?

 **Tucker** : i’ve been looking for him all morning. i talked to Carolina, how do you not know this?

 **Epsilon** : kimball has me on desk duty organizing digital inventories and all that shit. i’m busy

 **Tucker** : can you look at the infirmary log

 **Tucker** : see when he checked out

 **Epsilon** : what part of busy don’t you understand

 **Tucker** : dude

 **Epsilon** : fine whatever. i’ll look

 **Tucker** : any day now dude

 **Epsilon** : chill out. i had to double check it was up to date

 **Tucker** : and?

 **Epsilon** : i don’t know. wash never checked out of the infirmary

* * *

Tucker walks to the infirmary and definitely doesn’t step in front of a warthog on the way because he’s not paying attention to his surroundings. It’s entirely the fault of those soldiers driving. They’re the ones not watching where they’re going.

Even though he’s completely, totally not worried at all, Tucker peeks in on the main ward first. Most of the beds are vacant. The handful of patients are attended to by a small staff of nurses and field medics.

Tucker finds Wash’s bed empty. Not empty in an ‘injured Freelancer on the loose’ way, but in a ‘perfectly made sheets ready for a new patient’ way.

Reaching Grey’s office, Tucker finds the door closed. Worried he might be interrupting time with a patient, he hesitates before knocking lightly.

“Come in.” The muffled voice isn’t chipper or sing-songy. It’s oddly subdued.

Tucker cracks the door open and pokes his head inside.

Grey's sitting behind her desk shuffling some papers. Her thick-rimmed glasses are perched high on her head where her bushy hair is pulled into a messy bun. She lowers the glasses to her nose and looks up at Tucker.

“Captain Tucker, do come in.” She gestures to a chair facing the desk. Tucker takes a seat and watches as Grey reshuffles the files in front of her before setting them down again. Trying to look busy?

“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” Tucker blurts out.

Grey cocks her head at him before smiling in realization. “Oh, no, I wasn’t sneaking in a nap. You caught me thinking is all. Now,” she pulls her chair into the desk and sits up straight, “I do hope you’re feeling alright.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m actually looking for Wash. I haven’t seen him all day and Church says he didn’t check out.”

Grey’s smile falls a bit, and she nods. “He hasn’t been discharged yet.”

“He’s not in the ward.”

Grey leans forward, resting her elbows on her desk. “I’ve had him moved to a private room.”

There’s a sick feeling building in Tucker’s gut. “Is he okay? Is it his implants? He didn’t actually have a stroke, did he? Nobody said anything–”

Grey holds up a hand. “Agent Washington’s implants are fine and his injuries from yesterday’s mission are healing quickly.”

“Then what’s wrong with him?”

Grey regards him silently over her glasses. Finally, she sighs, folding her hands so her face is half hidden. “There was a minor incident in the ward last night.”

“Are you shitting me? Is Wash okay? What happened?” Tucker’s mind is going a mile a minute, worst case scenarios piling up.

“I wasn’t on duty, but…” Grey blows out a breath. “I believe he had a nightmare.”

Tucker blinks at her. “Um, okay. That’s not anything new though.”

“I’m aware. But as I said, I wasn’t on duty.”

“Okay, so?”

“The medic on duty elected to give him a light sedative.” She regards him across the desk and Tucker doesn’t say a word, just waits for Grey to continue. There’s more to it, he can see it written on her face.

“Washington did not react well to the drug.”

That tightness in his chest swells and this time it’s not so easy to swallow down. “How?”

Grey lifts her glasses to rub at her tired eyes. “He was agitated, confused. The staff was concerned, so they gave him a higher dose–to help him sleep.”

“What the fuck?” Tucker snarls, but Grey is already raising her hands.

"The medic and nurses had no way of knowing it was the drug's fault. They were only following procedure." Grey runs a hand through her tangled hair. "But it only made it worse–there was a real risk of him damaging his implants. He kept ripping at them. So… they restrained him. It took more than twice the average dose to finally put him under.”

 “Jesus fuck.”

Grey leans back in her chair. “Unfortunately, his tolerance level suggests he was exposed to the drug before, likely in Project Freelancer. It could explain his poor reaction.”

Tucker's hyper-aware of the trashcan beside the desk, because he’s pretty sure he’s going to be sick. “Is he okay?” The stupid question comes out in a whisper.

“Physically, Agent Washington is fine, but…”

Something cold settles in his gut.

“He’s currently unconscious, and I’m concerned that coming down from the sedative will be rough.”

“Rough how?”

Grey levels him with a stare. “Given your relationship with Washington, I’m sure you’re aware of the impact the damage to his neural implants has caused.”

He knows. Tucker’s not sure if she’s talking physical damage or mental, or both, but he knows. He’s seen how Wash goes dead quiet after jerking awake from a particularly rough nightmare–how he’ll stare at the wall for hours while Tucker pretends to sleep across the room. Because the times he tried to talk to Wash, the Freelancer turned towards him with a gaze that sent chills down Tucker’s spine. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Wash hurting him (he’s really not, no matter how much Wash insists they all stay away from him during a nightmare). But the wide-eyed, cornered animal look Washington had fixed him with had lacked all recognition. That was what scared Tucker.

There are other things too. Since coming to Chorus, Tucker’s noticed how Wash freezes up when he realizes he’s forgotten something–even the most mundane things, like what time a meeting starts. The Freelancer’s eyes narrow as he racks his brain until his teeth are gritted and he’s coiled like a spring.

But when Wash does remember something–if he’s describing an incident from a mission or just laughing about something stupid his cadets got up to–it’s full of details. Like he’s trying to commit every little moment to memory. Like he’s worried he’ll lose it.

Tucker doesn’t know where to begin when Grey asks about the damage done. So instead, he just nods.

Grey lets out a long, lingering sigh; rubbing at her temple. Not for the first time, Tucker catches a glimpse of the face behind the clinical doctor persona. One of a worried friend.

“You see,” Grey says, “I’m far more concerned about the psychological repercussions this will have.”

Ice forms in the pit of Tucker’s stomach. “What do you mean?”

“If Washington was exposed to the sedative during Project Freelancer, I expect it will dredge up some unpleasant memories, but,” Grey folds her hands on her desk, “I’m more concerned that it might have been used following the incident with the Epsilon AI–during recovery.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun. dun. DUUUUNNN.
> 
> Comments and critiques welcome!
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr at [wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter Three

Wash doesn’t talk about his time in recovery. He’s told Tucker stories about Freelancer, and even about his time as Recovery One. But those few years in between are a nebulous blur. Tucker used to wonder if Wash remembered them at all.

But he’s spent enough time with the Freelancer to recognize how Wash tenses up in a hospital setting. How he tracks the movement of nearby medical personnel. Admittedly, Tucker wrote off Wash’s habit of consistently downplaying his injuries to avoid a trip to the infirmary as part of his weird martyr complex. But now Tucker’s left wondering if there’s more to it.

Tucker expects the worst when Grey leads him to the door of a tiny hospital room off the main ward. His mind goes to the days following Sidewinder. To the nights Tucker woke to the sound of a tortured wail and burst into the Freelancer’s room to find Wash shaking so bad, the first time it’d happened Tucker thought for sure it was a seizure. To Wash, eyes forced shut as he fisted sweat-soaked hair and kept up a steady train of broken pleads ("He lied to us. Please. Twisted and tortured us. Epsilon, please. Don’t say goodbye). To Wash jolting awake to see Tucker or Caboose in the room and scrambling away from them until his back was pressed up against the wall, and his forehead pressed to his knees as he struggled to breathe. The Freelancer wouldn’t go back to sleep after that. Instead, he’d stay right there, hands gripping the back of his neck. And he’d be perfectly silent, save for the occasional shaky breath, for hours after that.

Tucker expects all that now. But when he enters the room behind Grey, that’s not what he finds.

Wash is lying in a hospital bed and looks if Tucker didn't know any better, peaceful. Tucker sucks in a breath before he moves to the agent’s side.

Wash doesn’t look like death, at least, any more than usual. The dark circles under his eyes stand out against his pale face and his hair’s a bit of a mess, hanging down into his eyes where it isn’t sticking up. Tucker’s already brushing the strands out of the man’s face before the teal soldier registers what he’s doing. His hand stutters, but after a moment of hesitation, he continues.

“Wash?” He asks, voice low.

“I suspect it will be a few hours before he starts to come out of it,” Grey says from her post by the door, speaking in the same low tone Tucker’s words set. “But with the resistance he’s shown… it could be sooner.”

"That's good, right?" Tucker turns to her. "He'll wake up sooner."

Grey looks past the sim trooper. “Washington will likely be confused for some time–until the drug is out of his system.”

Tucker swallows down the anger rising in his throat. Dropping his hand to the mattress, his fingers swipe over ridged fabric. Tucker looks down and finds restraints securing Wash’s wrists to the bed rails. They’re padded but he can already see the hint of bruises forming from when the Freelancer must have struggled against them.

Tucker’s getting the urge to throw up again. His hands paw at the strap uselessly. He takes a long breath before speaking up.

“You can’t do this,” Tucker blurts out at Grey rounds the bed to check a machine. She looks up at him as he clears his throat and tries again. “You can’t hold him down–tie him down or whatever. It freaks–it’s gonna freak him out.”

There's a sad look on the doctor's face as she nods in understanding like she already knew this. And Tucker's reminded that she was there those months Wash, Donut, and Sarge were with the Federal Army, but more importantly, she was the one that fixed Wash’s head. Maybe she does understand.

“Until it’s clear he’s not going to damage his implants,” Grey tells him, “they have to stay on.”

 After that, it’s not entirely clear what happens. Tucker doesn’t remember asking to stay, or Grey saying he could. But at some point, they must have come to some sort of understanding because Tucker’s in a chair at Wash’s bedside and Grey is quietly explaining what serious symptoms to look out for. She passes him the nurses’ call button and then she’s gone. And Tucker begins his vigil beside his friend’s hospital bed, watching Wash’s chest rise and fall in silence.

In those early days after dragging Wash from the snow on Sidewinder, it was never the shaking or the thrashing or screaming that worried Tucker the most.

No, it was this. It was the quiet.

* * *

There are no windows in the little room, so Tucker would have lost all track of time if it wasn't for his datapad, lying abandon on the chair beside him. He considers getting some work done–a distraction–but doesn’t get much further than asking Donut to cover his afternoon training session.

After little over an hour, Wash’s breathing begins to hitch, here and there. Tucker watches Wash’s face, looking for signs of life but is disappointed.

At some point, Tucker’s mind wanders and so does his vision. He must stare at the wall for a solid forty minutes before he glances back to the bed. He’s startled to find Wash’s eyes open. Tucker blinks and sits up straight.

“Hey,” Tucker whispers, scooting his chair up to the edge of the bed.

The Freelancer is staring up at the ceiling with a dull gaze. He rolls his head towards Tucker with half-lidded eyes. He responds in a soft, tired voice. “Hi.”

Tucker leans in, arms folded against the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Wash closes his eyes and considers this, brow furrowed. “Like a spaceship landed on me,” he says drily.

Tucker heaves out a breathy chuckle. Tension he didn’t realize he’d been carrying seeps from his shoulders. The Freelancer’s gaze is glassy but alert as it explores the room at a lagged pace. Tucker can see how much effort it takes.

“Where…?” Wash rasps before swallowing thickly.

“The infirmary,” Tucker assures him. “Grey moved you to a private room–pretty fancy.”

Wash hums absently in response, eyes falling on the strap securing his wrist to the bed rail. Tucker braces himself. But tired eyes just blink at the restraints, and turn back to the ceiling. Maybe he’s more out of it than he looks.

“Do you remember why you’re here?” Tucker asks, eager to keep Wash’s mind off the cuffs circling his wrists.

Wash closes his eyes. “Not really,” he sighs after a few moments. “Sorry…”

“Got fucked up by some space pirates.” Tucker watches the Freelancer. “Grey kept you here overnight to be monitored–you got a concussion.” That’s good enough for now. He’ll take it slow.

For a long moment, Tucker's left wondering if Wash has fallen asleep. But then his eyes flutter open and he's back to staring at the ceiling in silence.

Tucker stands, leaning over to fumble with the restraint at Wash’s wrist.

Wash lifts his head to stare as Tucker releases him. “Wh…what are you…?” He blinks hard, trying to clear his vision, and his brow creased with the exertion that simple act takes.

“Getting these things off you, obviously.” Tucker stops to regard the Freelancer. “Being tied to a bed can’t be fun. Or it can be. Just not like this. Bow chika bow wow.”

Wash still looks baffled, so Tucker continues. Tucker reaches for his other wrist, leaning over the man. “I mean, fuck, dude, you’ve already got some wicked bruises going on there–”

Despite his drugged-up state, the Freelancer startles hard, jerking away from Tucker looming over him.

The sim trooper raises his hand for Wash to see. “Whoa. It’s okay, it’s okay. Sorry.”

The Freelancer pulls his freed arm to his chest and curls in on himself. He eyes Tucker.

“Where are we going?” The question is curt, accusatory.

“Nowhere,” he assures Wash. “Nowhere. We’re gonna stay right here. And you really need to stay in bed–you’re coming down from a pretty nasty sedative.”

Wash pulls his knees to his chest and drops his forehead against them with a sigh. The sight is so miserable that Tucker has to stop himself from reaching out a comforting hand.

An eerie silence settles over the room. Even so, Tucker almost misses it when the Freelancer makes a noise, muffled against his knees.

“What did you say?”

Wash doesn’t move, just mumbles a little louder. “Is he here?”

Something about those three words makes the hairs on the back of Tucker’s neck stand upright. The sim trooper sits on the opposite end of the bed, careful to give Wash as much space as possible.

“Is who here?” He asks, voice soft and much calmer than he feels.

Wash visibly shivers and wraps his free arm around his shins. “The Councilor,” he sighs.

Fuck. Tucker clenches his jaw.

“No,” he says. “He isn’t here.”

Wash lifts his head to stare, eyes fever bright. Confusion plays across his features.

“I…” Wash wets his lips and starts again. “I don’t have to talk to him?”

Every fiber of Tucker’s being wants to wrap the Freelancer in a hug and never let go, but he can’t. The Freelancer might be a bit out of it, but he’s still tracking every move Tucker makes in a way Tucker’s never seen before–even after Sidewinder.

Tucker edges a hand out to Wash, leaving it out on the blankets like an invitation to a scared animal. “He’s not here,” Tucker says again. “And you don’t have to talk to him–ever again.”

Something wary and panicked flickers across the Freelancer’s face. The trust Tucker’s come to recognize in Wash’s gaze is gone, leaving behind a hollow space.

“I swear to God, he’s not here,” Tucker whispers, something in his heart breaking. “You never have to talk to him again. He’s not coming. He never will. I won’t let him.”

Wash winces, hand going to the side of his head. “…I don’t–I don’t understand I–is this?”

Tucker moves closer, hand hovering in front of the Freelancer, but unable to close the gap between them. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

Wash lifts his head and locks his wide eyes with Tucker’s. The Freelancer’s words come out in a stuttering breath.

“Who–Who _are_ you?”

All the air vanishes from Tucker’s lungs in a single instant, so when he finally finds his voice it’s trembling. “Wash?”

The Freelancer narrows his eyes. “ _Who_ are you?” he asks again.

Tucker’s words rush together. _“No, no, no.”_ He’s breathless as he leans in. “I’m Tucker. Lavernius. Tucker.”

He stares at Wash, unable to blink, searching for a sign of recognition. The sim trooper tries again, the word turning into a desperate plead. “Tucker… It’s Tucker.”

The man stares back at him with nothing but fear and confusion in his eyes.

“Do you…” Tucker swallows and starts again, barely able to get the question out. “Do you remember your name?”

Wash nods rapidly. “Yes, yes, I’m–” He stutters, mouth opening and closing wordlessly a few times. “I’m–I am…My name is–is,” the Freelancer’s becoming frantic, chest starting to heave. “My name is–my name is–”

 “Hey, it’s okay,” Tucker says, raising his hands reassuringly, but freezes when Wash flinches. “It’s okay. Slow down. Take a deep breath.”

Wash presses the heel of his hand to his eye and shakes his head fiercely, gasping turning to wheezing.

“No, no, come on, you can do it. Look at me. Just take a deep breath.”

Cracking an eye open, the Freelancer gives Tucker a wary look. Finally, he sucks in a long, shuddering breath.

“That’s it, you’ve got it. Now another one.”

It’s slow going, but with a bit of coaxing Tucker gets Wash breathing normally again. Or at least close to it. He’s still panting faintly as he drops his head back to the pillows and fighting to keep his eyes open after the short adrenaline dump.

“Hey,” Tucker breathes, and Wash drags his gaze over to him. The sim trooper places his hand on the edge of the bed near Wash’s, but not touching, leaving room for him to pull away. Wash’s fingers twitch and Tucker can’t tell if that’s a good or bad sign.

“You should get some rest,” Tucker says. “Sleep this off.”

The Freelancer slowly blinks at him, and something in the man’s tired eyes prompts Tucker to add,

“I promise you’re safe. I promise.”

Wash’s eyes slip shut.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques welcome!
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr at [wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter Four

Tucker keeps watch over Washington’s fitful dozing. The Freelancer’s weak tossing and turning are somewhat limited by the restraint still circling one wrist. Tucker’s hesitant to remove it now (images of Wash tearing at his implants play in his head), and he can’t bring himself to strap Wash’s free arm back down. He gets the urge to throw up just thinking about it.

After an hour or two of restless sleep, the hurt noises start up, beginning with soft whines and soon joined by shuddering gasps.

Wash tosses his head back, grimacing, and Tucker instinctively reaches for his hand but halts. His own hand hovers over Wash’s. He wants to be a comforting presence, a literal hand to hold, but he doesn’t want to spook Wash any further.

He can’t do this. Tucker’s best friend suffering and he can’t do anything except watch.

Before Tucker can make up his mind, Wash jolts awake, coughing violently like he’s just surfaced from deep waters. The Freelancer sits hunched over, hacking up a lung or two. Tucker keeps himself occupied by fetching a water pitcher from the nightstand and filling a small paper cup. He offers it to Wash who’s curled up and draped an arm over his knees, gasping. The agent closes his eyes, sipping the water between pants.

Hope flutters in Tucker’s chest and he scoots to the edge of his seat. Wash’s fit dies down leaving the pair to sit in silence for a few minutes punctuated only by the agent’s uneven breathing.

Tucker studies the man’s pale face. “Wash?” His eyes flicker open, staring at nothing.

Tucker swallows. “How do you feel?”

Wash gives an apathetic shrug. “Okay.”

That's a lie if Tucker's ever heard one judging by the agent's color and the sheen of sweat on his brow, not to mention the dazed look in his eyes.

Tucker presses forward cautiously. “Do you know who I am?”

Wash thinks this over for a moment.

“Tucker,” he finally answers. “You’re Tucker.”

Tucker could cry with relief.

“That’s right,” Tucker nods furiously, a smile growing on his face. “You got it right. I’m Tucker. Thank fuck–do you…do you know your name?” The sim trooper is wincing even as he asks the question.

The Freelancer needs to think about this longer than Tucker would like. But then,

"Agent Washington," he says.

"Thank shitting Christ," Tucker all but wheezes, throwing his head back and dragging his hands down his face. He turns back to Wash. "Do you remember what happened?"

Wash looks away. “…I forgot…sorry.”

“Jesus, dude, don’t apologize. You’re on some seriously un-fun drugs right now. There was a thing with space pirates, but everyone’s fine and you’re fine.”

Tucker watches Wash struggle to remember, a hint of panic creeping onto his face. About to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, Tucker catches himself.

“It’s okay,” Tucker says instead. “It’ll come back to you later. After you get some rest.”

“Oh…okay,” Wash stretches back out on the bed, settling back against the pillow.

Tucker can barely contain the relief coursing through him, snagging a spare blanket just to keep his hands busy. “Are you cold? Do you want another? I’ve got another.”

Wash blinks at him owlishly. “Um…yeah. Thanks…”

“You got it, dude.” Tucker drapes a second stiff hospital blanket over the man and stands at attention at his bedside. “Do you need anything else? There’s water. Or I could call Grey.”

Some small part of Tucker’s brain is wailing in warning that he’s starting to sound like Donut fussing over the Reds, but he’ll deal with that later. Right now, Wash is awake, alert, and isn’t bleeding from his eyeballs and that needs to be reveled in.

The Freelancer shakes his head at Tucker’s question, gaze going back to the ceiling.

Tucker drops into his chair and leans back. He lets out a long breath heavy with relief.

“…um…”

Tucker lifts his head. Wash is watching him with tired eyes.

“…Don’t you…need to…”

Tucker leans in. “Do you need something?”

Wash shakes his head. “No, it’s just–don’t you need–or shouldn’t you…” His gaze flickers to the bedside and back up again. When Tucker raises an eyebrow, the Freelancer shifts an arm. Tucker follows the movement to where Wash’s wrist lies limp in the open cuff of the restraint.

The teal soldier’s bloodstream freezes solid. There are ice crystals in his veins.

It’s no accident–the Freelancer’s hand is draped against the fabric shackle in open surrender as he watches Tucker with not so much resignation–but expectation.

“What the fuck?” The hoarse whisper is out before Tucker can stop it. “I mean–holy shit, Wash, no–” He can’t get out the words. It’s like he’s choking on sand.

Wash tenses at the change in Tucker’s tone, voice going soft. “What? What did I…” Tucker watches the agent’s eyes run over him and then to the door. The sim trooper knows what it means–two of the first things Wash taught him was to size up a threat and to check exits.

Tucker’s throat is closing, his eyes watering. “Jesus Christ,” his voice breaks. “God, no, Wash–I’m not…I won’t–how could–Fucking Christ, Wash! No, no, no, no…”

He trails off and the Freelancer frowns. “…But I don’t–isn’t this–?”

“Wash,” Tucker says, swallowing. “D-do you know where you are?”

The answer comes more quickly than expected.

“Recovery One.”

Tucker has no idea what his face is doing, but Wash must see something there.

“I got it wrong, didn’t I?” The Freelancer’s face falls. “I-I-I remembered wrong? It–it’s not Recovery One…because-because the Mother crashed…and I forgot–I’m sorry–I’ll remember better. Next time, I-I will–”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “No, Wash–,” Tucker leans in too fast and his voice hitches when Wash flinches away. “It’s okay. It’s…not your fault. It isn’t.” He hates the way Wash is looking at him like he’s speaking another language. Tucker presses on. “Do you know who I am?”

“Tucker.”

“Yes, but who am I?”

“…I thought you said–or did I get it wrong–”

“Wash, please.” Tucker interrupts, cutting off the panic rising in Washington’s voice, and not speaking again until the man’s breathing slows. “Who am I to you?”

Every second of silence that follows is a twist of a knife to Tucker’s gut. It’s like watching someone fall. With every moment that passes, they slip further out of reach. His own heart is hammering as he stares into Wash’s eyes and the agent stares back with a gaze that is somehow lacking.

Wash sucks in a breath. “I don’t know.”

Tucker’s head drops to his hands where he curls fists into his hair.

“…I’m sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” Tucker doesn’t lift his head but he can feel the Freelancer’s eyes on him. “Please, just don’t.”

Silence. Tucker doesn’t know how long he hides behind his hands. When he does look up, Wash is fighting to keep his eyes open.

“Hey,” Tucker whispers, leaning in slow with his hands out in the open as Wash eyes him. “Get some rest. And then…everything will go back to normal.” Why does that feel like such a fucking lie? It’s no matter–there’s no hesitation when Wash gives a faint nod and lets his eyes slip shut.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques welcome!
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr at [wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter Five

Wash sleeps, but Tucker doubts it’s restful. There’s less than an hour of blissful stillness before the tossing and turning start up again. Tucker does his best to keep Wash from twisting himself up in the bedsheets but can’t do anything for the pain flickering across his face. Quivering hands clench at the blankets. Uneven gasps and whines claw their way out of his throat as he flinches away from unseen threats. At the height of whatever dark visions plague him Wash's eyes crack open. But he's not really there and doesn't respond when Tucker calls his name.

Then comes the mumbling–so slurred Tucker can’t make it out.

Eventually, though, Tucker recognizes a name.

“Epsilon,” Wash pleads faintly. “Epsilon.”

Shit. Tucker stands and hovers a tentative hand over the Freelancer’s shoulder. “Wash?”

The man’s face contorts into a grimace. He tosses his head as if trying to shake off the nightmare. “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t, Epsilon!” The name breaks off in a wail that doesn’t quite make it out of his throat as his hand flies up to grasp his head. The man curls in on himself until he’s sitting up with his head between his knees. Wash’s eyes flash open, chest beginning to heave as words drop from his lips in a trail of whimpers. “No, no, Epsilon, please don’t, I can’t, it hurts, it hurts–”

“Wash? Wash.” Tucker is at the man’s side in an instant, caution forgotten. He closes his own hand over Wash’s shaking one still gripping the side of his head. Tucker’s heart is in his throat as with his free hand he paws blindly for the nurse’s call button. “What hurts? Wash, stay with me. Tell me what hurts.”

Wash chokes out the word in a shuddering gasp. “Epsilon.”

Tucker freezes, barely aware of his stomach tying itself in sickening knots. “He’s not here.”

Wash shakes his head wildly. His eyes squeeze shut and he grinds his teeth against what Tucker can only assume is another wave of pain as the man stiffens. “I can still hear him–oh god, he’s still in my head–get out!”

The Freelancer’s hand rips itself from Tucker and flies to the back of his neck. Tucker realizes what’s happening three seconds too late as Wash claws at his implants.

Tucker lunges, grabbing for Wash’s wrist and prying his fingers away from the ports. Wash thrashes, trying to shake him off. Then whipping his head around, the agent sinks his teeth into the flesh of Tucker’s hand.

“Fuck!” Tucker shouts, yanking his hand back. There’s no moment to recover because Wash goes for the implants again, fingers tearing at the already scarred skin. A trickle of blood appears and Tucker doesn’t think twice. He dives, wrapping his hands around the back of Wash's neck and covering the Freelancer’s implants in a solid grip.

Wash shudders, fingers frantic as he scrabbles against Tucker’s hold. Nails scratch claw marks into the sim trooper’s skin but Tucker doesn’t let go. Even as Wash thrashes, even as his fingers bury themselves in Tucker’s wrist the teal soldier bites his lip and holds true. Under the sim trooper’s palms, Wash’s pulse hammers out of control.

Tucker’s so close that Wash’s breath brushes Tucker’s skin with each harsh wheeze. At this distance, he’s very aware that even drugged and down one arm Wash could do him some serious damage, especially if the man gave up on the implants and went for the sim trooper’s exposed throat instead. Still, he leans in closer, Wash’s hair almost brushing his.

“Wash, Wash, Wash,” he begs. “Wash, you’re okay. You’re fine. He’s not here. You’re okay.”

The Freelancer’s eyes crack open. The gaze is so pleading, so honestly fearful, confused, and hurt; it punches the air right out of Tucker’s lungs.

Closing the gap between them, Tucker rests his forehead against Wash’s.

“You’re okay, Wash,” he repeats like a mantra, “you’re okay. He’s not here. You’re okay, you’re okay…”

It doesn’t make things all better. There are no magic words to pull your best friend out of the darkest corners of his own mind. Wash’s fingers still claw Tucker’s hands and arms. His breathing remains ragged and gasping as his eyes remain locked on the sim trooper’s face. But Tucker never stops breathing nonsensical pleads and platitudes, even long after his own racing heart drowns out their meaning.

Whether thanks to Tucker’s comforting presence or simple exhaustion, slowly, ever so slowly, the struggle weakens. The writhing wanes as desperate hands fumble. The glassy gaze becomes unfocused, and eyelids begin to droop. Wash is barely pawing at Tucker’s arms by the time his eyes slip closed and his head drops limply against Tucker’s shoulder. It’s not until the hitching gasps have evened out that Tucker releases his hold on the back of the man’s neck.

After that, Grey arrives, though Tucker can’t recall if or when he managed to hit the call button. With her help, Tucker gently guides Wash’s unconscious form back down to the bed. She must ask him what happened, he must explain because she’s turning the Freelancer’s head this way and that, hovering her scanner over his implants. All Tucker’s sure of is the sting of the disinfectant cloth she wipes up and down his scratched arms. He’s dragged back into reality by a sudden, intense burning on his hand.

“Fucking shit,” Tucker gasps, pulling his hand from Grey’s grip and cradling it to his chest.

The doctor isn’t fazed, just waves a little bottle at him. “Just a bit of antiseptic, dear. We wouldn’t want that to get infected now.”

Following her eyes, Tucker checks his hand to find a nasty looking bite oozing blood. He twitches his fingers experimentally and hisses. Jesus, that’s deeper than he expected.

Grey pulls a chair up close and begins to dab at the wound with a bit of gauze. “The good news is nothing’s broken and you won’t be needing stitches.”

Stitches and possible broken bones? Tucker had no idea you could do that much damage just by chomping down on someone.

 They sit in silence as Grey bandages the teal soldier’s hand. Tucker spends the whole time studying Wash’s pale face, the unconscious man looking so deceivingly peaceful – even with the drying tracks of tears marking his face. Tucker wonders if he’s got ones to match.

“This fucking sucks," Tucker says all at once. Beside him, Grey just nods.

“His vitals indicate the sedative should be completely out of his system within the next three to four hours. Though we’ll take a blood test to be sure.”

Finished dressing Tucker’s wound, the doctor takes another scan of Wash’s implants. Wiping away a bit of blood from the back of his neck, she uses medical tape to secure patches of gauze over a few small cuts the Freelancer managed to give himself. Grey finishes by taking a vial of blood and before leaving, she straps Wash’s wrist back down to the bed, face grim. Tucker hates himself for not protesting, even while part of him is grateful.

He hates that part most of all.

* * *

Time is weird after that. Wash wakes up, but not like before. He comes to for mere minutes at a time, dazed and confused. He doesn’t know Tucker. Hell, he barely knows himself.

“My name is Church. Leonard Church.

“No, Oh god, they took them all away…

“Agent Washington. I–My name is Agent Washington. Washington.

“Washington…No, no, that’s not right. Agent Washington and another died.

“Where are my glasses?

“My name is Church…”

Each time, Tucker is there with three questions. Hours pass before he gets anything resembling correct answers, but he keeps at it, until,

Do you know who I am? Tucker. Do you know where you are? Chorus. Do you know your name? Washington. Wash.

And still, they repeat the questions over and over until Wash is mumbling the answers like a prayer–like the three words are echoing around his head as much as they are for Tucker.

Tucker. Chorus. Wash.

* * *

Tucker doesn’t realize how late it’s gotten until Grey returns with the results of the blood test and insists that Tucker get dinner before the mess hall closes. He protests, even while his stomach screams and begs for mercy. Unfortunately for him, Grey brought backup. An unhappy Grif had come in for a check up on his twisted knee and been told he wasn’t leaving unless he took Tucker with him. It was a smart move, given no person alive dared stand between the orange soldier and food.

Pushing Tucker out of the room, Grey promised to stay with Washington until his return.

“He’ll be coming around soon,” she assured. “His blood tests are all clear. He might even be waiting for you when you get back!”

Tucker grudgingly agrees and allows Grif to drag him to the mess hall.

It turns out Grey was right. An hour later, Wash has woken up confusion free and alert.

But she did get one thing wrong.

Tucker returns to the infirmary and is greeted by an empty bed and a sympathetic Grey. Wash requested discharge, she says. And just like that he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques welcome!
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr at [wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter Six

Tucker likes to think he’s a bit of an expert on Wash’s usual haunts. The base is full of unused rooms and empty stretches of hallway. It’s not hard to get lost and very easy to hide in. Still, Tucker’s got a pretty good record when it comes to sniffing out the places Wash is likely to be sulking after a strategy meeting or hiding from Donut’s makeover parties.

But Wash isn’t in the workshop behind the armory fixing something Caboose broke or hiding in the stairwells. He’s not beating the shit out of a punching bag in the far corner of the training room. He’s not even sitting under that ugly ass tree growing between two burnt out warehouses that Tucker knows Wash’s fond of.

After circling the compound for an hour and a half, Tucker's exhausted which is weird because he didn't do a whole lot today besides sit still and be fucking terrified. He’s also cranky as hell.

 **Tucker:** wow thanks for waiting for me. where’s the fucking fire

 **Tucker:** hello

 **Tucker:** HELLO

 **Tucker:** hey asshole

 **Tucker:** WASH

 **Tucker:** don’t make me copy and paste the entire script of reservoir dogs in here again

 **Tucker:** i’ll do it

 **Tucker:** i swear to god i will

 **Tucker:** here i go

 **Tucker:** okay seriously are you okay

 **Tucker:** you better be okay

 **Tucker:** i’m not fucking around washington

 **Tucker:** you better not be lying somewhere bleeding from your motherfucking eyeballs

 **Tucker:** message me as soon as you get this

Wash doesn’t come back to their shared room that night. Tucker fully intends to sleep, but his mind helpfully spits out nightmare scenario after nightmare scenario until he finally messages Grey at midnight to check that Wash hasn’t been returned to the infirmary after a relapse of some sort. But, no, Wash hasn’t made a dramatic reappearance at the hospital and Tucker tries to convince himself that's a good thing.

It’s not totally unusual for the agent to pull late nights or even all-nighters (though bullying from Grey, Tucker, and Carolina have helped cut down on the latter). Tucker’s grown used to falling asleep to the gentle light of Wash’s desk lamp as the man triple checks fortification schematics, battle plans, and ammunition inventories. Besides, it usually only takes throwing a couple of balled up pieces of laundry or a granola bar at his head to get him to finally turn in.

So, Wash staying out late is nothing, at least that’s what Tucker tells himself.

It’s two a.m. when Tucker finally nods off, watching the door and listening for the telltale sound of boots coming down the hall. At dawn, he wakes with a start to find the room cold and empty, and Wash’s bed unslept in.

* * *

Wash spends the day avoiding him.

Not that Tucker can prove it.

Plenty of other people see Wash. Grif says he saw him come into the mess hall to snag an apple or ration bar once or twice. But he’s absent from breakfast which the Reds and Blues have together. Carolina ran with him before dawn at 0500 even though he usually runs with Tucker at a vaguely more humane hour. After lunch, Tucker usually gets out of weapons training with Sarge early enough that he can go pester Wash for the last half hour of the Freelancer’s squad’s training. Today Wash’s squad is told to meet with him at the bomb range–which is conveniently far enough across the base from the armory that by the time Tucker treks all the way there, Wash is long gone.

Okay, so Tucker does spend a lot more time with Wash than he realized. Maybe Donut’s on to something. Speaking of the pink soldier, even he’s seen Wash. The Freelancer even had the audacity to bring up Tucker’s text that said the Red was looking for Wash. Meaning the asshole checked his messages, saw the roughly million and a half from Tucker, and still hasn’t bothered to respond.

* * *

Tucker slams his dinner tray down with a loud clatter of silverware. Across the table, Sarge throws up an eyebrow but says nothing as the teal soldier drops into a seat. Tucker spends the next several minutes glaring at his food and stabbing it furiously with a fork before the other man speaks up.

“So,” the Red leader begins, watching Tucker over a steaming cup of coffee. “Mind telling me why I had a Freelancer sleeping on my floor last night?”

Tucker stops torturing his food and stares. "Wash slept in your room?"

It never occurred to him to wonder where Wash spent the night. Given the man’s habitual lack of sleep, he’d just assumed Wash holed up somewhere to do paperwork or run drills or something equally anti-fun. It also never occurred to him that Sarge would be a person Wash went to for help. And Tucker isn’t feeling jealous. No sir.

Sarge nods. “On the floor,” he adds. “With a disposable emergency blanket I’m thinking he pilfered from a med kit. I offered to find another cot but he wouldn’t have it.”

Tucker grunts and resumes stabbing his dinner. Yeah, that's Wash.

It takes Tucker a moment to realize he spoke out loud. He looks up to find Sarge studying him, arms crossed.

The teal soldier huffs. “What?”

“You two having some sort of lover’s quarrel?”

“Ugh, no,” Tucker groans, dragging his palms down his face, which forces him to remember the bandage circling his hand. “If only it were that easy.”

Tucker tries to explain the events of yesterday–keeping it as brief as possible because Sarge will get bored and leave soon, and Wash probably won’t appreciate Tucker gossiping about his medical history. But soon the words start flowing and just won't stop.

“…So now he’s avoiding me like the fucking plague, but it’s like… why? We’re all fucked up. You know? And I know he takes the cake for fucked up shit that’s happened to him–but I already knew that way before now and we’re still friends.”

Tucker heaves a massive sigh and rubs at his eyes. “So, it doesn’t change anything. I mean, it changes some things because it turns out there’s a lot more fucked up shit that happened and, now I want to bring the director back to life just to strangle him myself. Also, that counselor douche? He can go die in a fire. Repeatedly...”

The sim trooper blinks down at his cold dinner. “…what was my point? I had a point–oh, yeah, like what’s he afraid of? Me saying ‘fuck off’ because of some shit that’s not his fault?”

Sarge is a surprisingly good listener for Tucker's ramblings, not once interrupting or making comments about ‘Blue team problems.’ The Red leader takes a sip of his coffee and leans in.

“Son,” he rumbles, “you didn’t hear it from me, but this might have less to do with him being afraid of you, and more to do with you being afraid of him.”

Tucker wrinkles his nose. “I’m not afraid of Wash.”

“And he knows that?”

“Well, yeah,” Tucker snaps. “I fucking live with the guy.”

“Alright, so maybe you oughta remind him.”

Tucker blanches. “…what?”

Sarge sighs, folding his arms on the table. “He probably knows you ain’t scared of him. Deep down and all. But still, probably best to remind him. ‘Cause it’s looking like, with everything that’s happened and all, he forgot.”

Tucker leans back in his seat.

“Huh,” Tucker says finally, after allowing Sarge’s words to hang in the air. “You’ve been spending waaaaaay too much time with Grey.” It’s a weak jab with no heat to it.

Sarge shrugs and picks up his coffee mug. “Just remember,” he says before taking a long sip, “you didn’t hear it from me.”

* * *

 

After another full day of failing to corner Wash, Tucker’s had enough. The teal soldier sets a plan in motion.

Leaving dinner early, Tucker manages to make it back to the barracks before the rush of shift changes. Not even bothering to turn on the lights, Tucker plops down on his bed and settles in to wait.

Sure enough, less than an hour later there’s muffled boot steps in the hall and the door creeps open. Wash probably thinks he’s stealthy, keeping the lights low and shutting the door behind him without a sound.

“Hey, dude.”

Wash startles like a cat, jumping at least a foot in the air. But unlike a cat, by the time he lands he’s already pulled a knife from somewhere.

“Whoa, chill.” Tucker holds up his hands in surrender as the Freelancer whirls to face him, knife raised. The teal soldier sees Wash register who it is, but instead of dropping the defensive stance, the man drops the knife as if burned. The blade clatters across the floor, killing the silent atmosphere of the room.

“Oh, ah, Tucker,” Wash stammers. “Sorry, sorry…” He bends down to fumble for the fallen weapon, coincidently allowing him to avoid eye contact with Tucker. “I-I thought you had a meeting with the lieutenants until nine?”

“Cancelled.” It’s not a complete lie, given the meeting never existed outside a listing on the army’s public schedule. But Tucker knew Wash wouldn’t risk returning to their room unless he was positive Tucker wouldn’t be here.

Wash straightens and goes to stash the knife away in his sweatpants. Halfway through the movement though, he thinks better of it, and tosses it away from him and onto his cot.

Wash turns back, but before Tucker can even open his mouth, the Freelancer’s words come out in a rush,

“I’m just here to grab a few things and then I’ll leave you alone.” Wash lets out a breath at the end as if he’d been holding it.

Tucker raises an eyebrow. “What things?”

“Um,” the Freelancer is looking everywhere except Tucker. “My things?”

Tucker snorts. “What, you plan on moving out?”

The dead silence that follows hits Tucker like a punch to the face.

“Wait, Wash,” Tucker’s voice drops, all trace of humor gone. “Do you want to move out?”

The floor must be pretty damn interesting given how hard Wash is studying it.

"There’s an empty room down the hall,” the Freelancer blurts out, “so it makes sense. You can have more space.”

Tucker mentally traces the layout of their hallway and pulls a face. “What empty room? There’s no–Wash. You are not sleeping in the _fucking storage closet_.”

“There’s space,” Wash maintains.

Tucker scoffs. “You couldn’t fit a cot in there!”

Wash winces. At least he recognizes his stupid ass plan for what it is. Still, he flails for a response. “There are plenty of old training mats we’re not using. They could fit.”

Tucker’s on the edge of his seat on the bed, gawking. “We don’t use them because they smell like BO and corpses! Sleeping on the concrete floor would be more comfortable. And that's saying something since there's no way you got any actual sleep on Sarge’s floor.”

Wash’s shoulders hunch. “He talked to you?” The man looks… betrayed.

It hits Tucker that any conversations the team leaders had while bunking together were probably more complex than ‘my room is being invaded by a damn dirty blue.’ Did they have a _talk_ talk? Is that where Sarge’s advice came from? If Wash thinks Sarge told Tucker what the Freelancer said in confidence (which he didn’t), there go the chances of Wash opening up to anyone ever again.

“Palomo saw you leaving his room this morning,” Tucker lies, “I kind of figured it out.”

Wash crosses his arms. “What makes you think I slept on the floor?”

“Because,” Tucker groans, “because you’re the person trying to move into a storage closet! Is rooming with me really that awful?” That last part comes out sounding more hurt than Tucker intended.

Wash blinks, a stricken look crossing his face. "What? No, Tucker, that's not–" He approaches, hands raised. "It isn't you. You're not…"

The man trails off, noticing he’s reaching for Tucker. He curls his hands into fists, stuffs them into his pockets, and takes a step back. There’s a long silence as Wash stares at his shoes.

Tucker sighs and pats the spot beside him on the bed. “Talk to me, man. What’s actually going on with you?”

The Freelancer shuffles on his feet but doesn’t come any closer. He keeps his eyes on the floor as he speaks.

"Grey said…you stayed with me…during. You didn’t have to do that.”

Tucker swallows down the argument brewing in his throat. “I know,” he says instead.

Silence.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Wash says finally.

It's Tucker's turn to ball his hands into fists.

“What was I supposed to do?” Tucker responds indignantly. “Leave you there?”

The Freelancer’s jaw clenches. “I had it handled.”

This time Tucker can’t help but scoff. “Oh, _buuull–shit!”_

Wash glares. “I did. It was fine.”

The last thing Tucker wants is this to turn into a fight, so he backpedals, voice going soft. “You actually remember?”

“Yes,” Wash snaps before blanching. “Well, maybe… I don't know. It's hard to tell what's…you know. Real." The way Wash says it so matter of fact–like not being able to distinguish the product of fever dreams from reality isn't chilling–makes Tucker sick to his stomach.

"But I remember a bit of you," Wash continues. He rubs the back of his head and shrugs, voice quieting. "I thought…I thought it'd freak you out."

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Tucker says, and Wash lifts his head. “Wash, it was the scariest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”

The Freelancer’s face twists into a wince but Tucker plows forward. “But not because I was scared of you or you hurting me or whatever, but because…Jesus Christ that was fucking _horrifying_. Seeing you like that. I had no idea–I don’t know–how do you even–”

Tucker gestures at his own head, trying to convey all the words he can’t quite reach. _I understand why you have nightmares. Why you forget your name. Why you still refuse to talk to me when I ask what’s wrong._

For a moment Tucker thinks he's getting through to the Freelancer. The man's head tilts to the side while listening but without warning his eyes flash.

“What is that?”

Tucker glances to either side. “What?”

Wash raises an accusatory hand, mouth set in a grim line. “That.”

Tucker's eyes follow the pointing finger and his gut tightens.

“It's nothing,” he says, trying to hide the bandaged hand behind his back as casually as possible.

Wash isn't fooled.

 _“What is that?”_ He asks again, voice rising in pitch.

“Wash, don't–”

“Oh my God,” the Freelancer gapes, voice dropping to a whisper. “I hurt you.”

“It's not that deep,” Tucker starts to explain but the horrified look on Wash's face cuts him off.

“Not that deep!” Wash half shrieks. Yeah, that was the wrong thing to say. His breathing hitches. “Jesus, what did–what…”

Tucker resigns himself to the truth. "You kind of bit me, dude."

Wash draws back as if slapped. "Oh, Jesus." Burying his hands in his hair, Wash clenches them into fists, head drooping. His next breath rushes out in a full-body shudder. _"Fuck!_ Oh my god."

Tucker stands. “Wash…”

The Freelancer paces a tight line, back and forth, and shakes his head viciously. He growls, but it comes out sounding pained.

“Fuck, Tucker _,”_ Wash croaks, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I’m so sorry!”

Tucker’s face tightens. “Stop apologizing. It’s not your–”

“Not my fault?!” Wash cries, rounding on Tucker with eyes shining with the threat of tears. “Not my fault?! I-I-I bit you! I hurt you– _I hurt you,_ oh god–”

“Wash, I don’t care about that!” Tucker barks, throwing out his arms.

“You should care!” Wash yells, head shooting up and eyes burning. “I could’ve seriously hurt you, or even–”

The Freelancer curls in on himself, hand flying to his mouth as he gags like he’s about to be sick.

"I'm sorry, I'm _so sorry_ ," the man continues to babble through his fingers. "It's all fucked up. I'm so fucked up. I'm a mess. I'm so _sorry."_

“You were out of your head on drugs! Now would you fucking breathe before you pass the fuck out?!”

"You don't get it!" Wash chokes out, chest heaving. White-knuckled fists pull at his hair. "I was supposed to be better. I should be over it. I want to be over it and I was so _stupid_ because I thought I might be–with all of you–but I'm still so _messed up_ and I-I hurt you–"

“Wash,” Tucker grits out, hands raised as he takes a step forward the way one approaches a wild animal. “you need to–”

Wash recoils instantly. Staggering back until he hits the wall, he doubles over, arms hugging himself. His eyes screw shut, forcing out the tears collecting there.

“JUST STAY AWAY FROM ME!” He snarls. “I-I…”

His voice breaks with a harsh sob. “…I don’t want to _hurt you.”_

The silence that follows is punctuated only by the Freelancer’s ragged gasps. And Tucker makes a decision that has a fifty percent chance of helping sort this all out, and a fifty percent chance of getting him punched in the throat.

Tucker surges forward and envelopes Wash in a hug.

Predictably, Wash startles hard. Instinct has the man pulling away, but the wall at his back keeps him in place. The Freelancer’s quivering fingers curl into the front of Tucker’s shirt, nails digging into the skin beneath. Tucker mentally prepares to be tossed across the room. But instead, Wash sucks in a noisy breath against the teal soldier’s shoulder and freezes.

Maybe it’s the smell of Tucker’s t-shirt that clicks in his head. Or the physical contact Tucker knows the man wants but won’t let himself have. Or maybe he’s just too tired to care. Whatever it is, the resulting exhale sends a bodily shudder rolling through the Freelancer.

It’s not a perfect hug, one of the ones you see in movies that fix everything. Tucker’s craning his neck to avoid Wash’s implants and the bandages around them. Wash is still wheezing like a drowning man and the teal soldier can feel each hot pant through his shirt at his collarbone. But Wash isn't pushing him away and that's something, even if Tucker doesn't know what.

It takes several long minutes of Wash shaking against Tucker before the Freelancer’s breathing begins to quiet.

Tucker holds him closer. Not tighter. Because tighter means restrained and Tucker won’t do that ever again.

With his nose pressed into Wash’s shirt, the words come out soft, muffled.

“I’m sorry.”

Wash sniffs, voice barely cracking above a whisper. “Wh…what?”

Tucker sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry all that fucked up shit happened to you. I’m sorry for Project Freelancer. I’m sorry for-for Epsilon. For the Director. And the Councilor. I’m sorry for it all.”

“Tucker–” The sim trooper feels Wash lift his face from his shoulder.  “Tucker, you don’t need to apologize for that.”

Tucker swallows. “But you do?”

Wash shifts against him and there’s a long pause before the Freelancer speaks.

“But it wasn’t all… I did things I’m not proud of. N-not because someone told me to, but… because I wanted to.”

Tucker lifts his head, shaking it gently. “I know, man,” he says as he pulls back just enough to look at the agent. Admittedly, Wash doesn't look great. His face is flushed, his cheeks are wet, and his shining eyes still won’t meet Tucker’s. Tucker’s own eyes sting.

“But you never asked for _this_ ,” he says, hand trailing from Wash's shoulder to ghost past the implant site and finally cup the back of his head.

Tugging gently, he brings their foreheads together. Wash’s eyes are closed under a furrowed brow. For a minute, it seems like the man is going to argue. But then, with imperceptible slowness, his expression softens. Tucker doesn’t know how long they stand like that, with his eyes locked on Wash’s face, before he notices the Freelancer’s increasing weight pressing against him.

Tucker doesn't hesitate before forking his fingers through Wash's hair, because–yeah, he's pretty sure they're past that.

“You tired?”

Wash’s eyes tighten.

“…yeah…” he breathes.

“Think you can sleep?”

The furrowed brow is back along with a frown. The man just shakes his head against Tucker’s.

“No problem, dude. I think I can help with that.”

* * *

Barely fifteen minutes later finds Wash with his shoulders hunched, sitting cross-legged on a couch in one of the lesser used rec rooms.

“You don’t have to do this,” he mumbles for the sixth time.

Tucker rolls his eyes and looks back at the man drowning in one of Grif’s hoodies. Tucker swiped it from the laundry room on the way here. His hands are buried in the pockets, but that doesn’t hide the fidgeting.

Tucker suppresses the urge to scoff and turns his attention back to the reason this rec room can never draw a crowd: the antique VCR player.

“Quit whining and drink your weird ass tea, Wash.”

The television screen flickers to life and Tucker turns around to find Wash scowling at his mug on the coffee table. He’s going to have to suck it up because there aren’t a lot of caffeine free beverage options on an active military base swarming with exhausted soldiers. Wash has enough problems sleeping without guzzling coffee before bed.

Tucker makes a mental note to check his armor hasn’t spontaneously turned pink.

“Good to go,” Tucker announces. Hopping the coffee table, he throws himself onto the couch almost directly on top of Wash, earning him a disgruntled squawk.

Getting comfortable, Tucker takes a long swig of his soda and doesn’t miss Wash’s envious side eye.

“You ready for this?” Tucker asks.

The man hunkers down deeper in his oversized sweatshirt, frowning. “You still haven’t told me what we’re watching.”

Wash looks absurdly guilty given the situation. With all the squirming and twitching, you’d think he killed a man–wait, scratch that. They’ve both killed people. No, Wash looks like he just ran over a basket of kittens with a monster truck.

“Yeah, well, what we’re watching isn’t the point. The point is we’re watching something and that’s always a good distraction from any and all bullshit.”

Tucker reaches for the remote and doesn’t miss the Freelancer’s gaze drifting towards his bandaged hand.

“I could bite you and make it even if you want,” Tucker says with a smirk and a wink.

Wash doesn’t say a word, but Tucker notices his eyebrows pull together.

“Oh, my god," Tucker cackles, swatting the man's shoulder. "Are you actually thinking about it?!”

Wash sputters. “No! I mean– _no!”_

Wash is saved by the swell of music and the title sequence playing on the TV.

"Is this…” he asks, tilting his head. “Sarge’s soap opera?”

“You mean one of his _stories_ ,” Tucker drawls in a passable imitation of the Red leader’s accent. Wash’s snort says he doesn’t agree. He doesn’t speak again until a few minutes into the first scene.

“So, um, why are we watching this?”

“Simple,” Tucker answers, settling back against the couch. “Falling asleep to crap TV is super easy and really fun.”

“Sarge will beat you to death with his shotgun if he hears you talking like that.”

“Couldn’t he just shoot me?”

“Yeah,” Wash admits, the ghost of a smile creeping onto his face. “But beating you with it just sounds more like him.”

Tucker barely hears him over the cheering in his head at the sight of that familiar smile.

The Freelancer holds out longer than expected. They're two episodes in before his eyes begin to droop. But by the time the credits roll on the third, Wash's head is tilted back against the couch. He's got his mouth hanging open, and he's snoring quietly. With a few gentle nudges, Tucker gets him to flop over and sleepily curl up against a pile of throw pillows.

Once Tucker’s certain the Freelancer’s passed out for good, he pulls out his datapad and messages Carolina.

 **Tucker:** any chance you could take over training wash's squad tomorrow morning

 **Tucker:** and also get someone to cover mine

 **Carolina:** do i want to know

 **Tucker:** i’m serious. can you cover wash

 **Tucker:** never mind mine

 **Carolina:** why isn’t wash the one texting me about this

Tucker attaches a picture of Wash huddled in his nest of pillows, drooling. Carolina’s response is immediate.

 **Carolina:** you know what

 **Carolina:** i just remembered i was planning on giving a knife combat demonstration to both your squads tomorrow morning

 **Carolina:** guess i forgot to put it on the schedule

 **Tucker:** you're a real blue

 **Carolina:** i’m pretty sure the reds have claimed me but thanks

 **Carolina:** if i see wash up and about before 0900 i’ll kick your ass

 **Tucker:** thanks i think

Tucking the datapad away, Tucker looks over at the Freelancer washed in the flickering light of the TV. His breathing is even and his face shows no sign of the stress that is usually etched into every feature. Like this, it would be easy to pretend the time in the infirmary never happened.

But Tucker knows better. Even while asleep, Wash has kept his back pressed firmly against the back of the couch. Another reason Tucker chose this rec room is the layout. The couch is against the wall and offers a clear view of the door.

It isn’t over. There are more tough conversations to come and they will be just as draining as tonight’s. Maybe even more. But for now, they’re both willing to pretend everything can be fixed with some banter, a hug, and plenty of crap TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been an adventure to write. I’ve written sections on my phone, in notebooks, on scrap paper, using speech to text programs, and even in crayon while stuck at work with no writing utensils. But in the end, it’s all come together into something I’m pretty proud of and your comments, tags, and private messages have meant the world to me. Honestly, this fic might not have been finished without you guys. I posted the first five chapters hoping for maybe a comment or two that would get me unstuck writing the intensely emotional confrontation that became the second to last scene of this fic. This chapter was supposed to be two scenes. Then you guys came out of the woodwork to support me. And now it’s 18 fucking pages and over 4000 words. All I can say is, thank you.
> 
> UPDATE  
> [crispy6usiness](http://crispy6usiness.tumblr.com) on Tumblr did some [amazing art of the last scene](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/post/168450364914/crispy6usiness-wordsysayswords-s-fic-no)
> 
> I commisioned [jomeimei421](https://jomeimei421.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for a [drawing of the hug scene](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/post/177939870649/its-not-a-perfect-hug-one-of-the-ones-you-see) and it looks stunning!


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